


one glance and the avalanche drops

by brandonsaad (createadisaster)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/createadisaster/pseuds/brandonsaad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rookies kneel, Brandon reminds himself. Rookies kneel. If his job is hockey and hockey is kneeling then kneeling is his job. <i>Rookies kneel</i>. </p><p>He can count the number of things he knows about Patrick Sharp on the hand he’s about to use to knock on his door. He knows he is handsome, an ex-Flyer, and a core member of the team Brandon is still only adjacent to.</p><p>He makes his NHL debut tonight, and rookies kneel. Brandon takes a deep breath, and he knocks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one glance and the avalanche drops

**Author's Note:**

  * For [folignos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/gifts).



> here are a few important things about this fic:
> 
> 1\. it is set in the universe that was established [here](http://sinsense.dreamwidth.org/439102.html) in which rookies kneel for more experienced players.
> 
> 2\. patrick sharp is single, has never been married, isnt cheating on his wife, etc.
> 
> 3\. it spans the beginning of the 2011 season to about march 2013. baby rookie brandon saad. be still my beating heart.
> 
> 4\. most importantly, it is written for jay toewses' birthday! the notes of this fic are not the place to get incredibly emotional and gay about him BUT IM GONNA DO IT ANYWAY jay is my best friend and i love him and i wrote this for him because he is my best friend and i love him and i needed to get him something to ease the pain of the old age creeping in. (i dont know about you, but HE'S definitely feeling 22.)
> 
> enjoy!

Rookies kneel, Brandon reminds himself. Rookies kneel. If his job is hockey and hockey is kneeling then kneeling is his job. _Rookies kneel_. 

He can count the number of things he knows about Patrick Sharp on the hand he’s about to use to knock on his door. He knows he is handsome, an ex-Flyer, and a core member of the team Brandon is still only adjacent to.  
  
He makes his NHL debut tonight, and rookies kneel. Brandon takes a deep breath, and he knocks.

-

About an hour and a half later, Patrick (“Yeah, you can call me Patrick, a lot of the guys call me Sharpy, or Shooter if you want, or pretty boy, I like pretty boy, I’ve never understood when people use it as an insult—”) gently coaxes a somewhat dazed Brandon to his feet and sends him on his way. That night, Brandon plays thirteen minutes, gets two shots on goal, and loses his first NHL game.

“Hey,” Patrick says, catching his wrist on his way out. “You did good. We’ll get them tomorrow.”

(They get them tomorrow, 5-2 Hawks. Brandon plays almost fifteen minutes and Patrick gets two points. He still feels like this is happening to someone else.)

-

That’s October 7th. On October 12th, he gets reassigned to the OHL. Management tells him he’s a good fit for them, just needs a little more time to get really ready, and he nods, promises himself he’ll be ready next time. 

“I’ll see you when you get back, kid,” Patrick says when Brandon tells him. “And call me if you need me, alright?” He writes his phone number down in incredibly elegant script on a loose scrap of paper, and then claps Brandon on the shoulder. “You’ll be great.”

Something about it should feel insincere, Brandon thinks—it’s a compliment he doesn’t know that he’s earned coming from a man he doubts he’s impressed, but his hand is an oddly comforting weight on his shoulder, and it takes a long time for him to step back.

“Thank you,” he says when he remembers how to speak. 

\- 

He calls Patrick in January. The Blackhawks are playing the Sharks at home that night, and Brandon’s a little worried he’s going to wake him from a nap, which he didn’t really think about until the phone was ringing, and ringing, and ringing, and he’s about to hang up, but—

“Brandon?” Patrick sounds sleepy. A little soft. 

“I’m sorry,” Brandon blurts. “Did I wake you? I can call later—sorry, I didn’t think about it—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Patrick says. “You okay? You haven’t, um, called. I kind of thought you would. You’re doing good, right? Your numbers look good.” 

“You’ve been watching?” he asks, startled. He’s barely had any time to keep up with the Hawks; he had no expectations that any of them would be keeping up with him.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “You got a goal last night, right?”

“Assist,” Brandon says a little weakly.

Patrick chuckles a little bit. “A point’s a point, kid. You gotta stay out of the box, though.”

Brandon doesn’t quite know how to process this. “You _watched_ the game? Where did you watch the game?”

“Internet,” Patrick says, like this is normal and casual. “We had the night off. I thought I’d check in on how you’re playing. I do, when I get a chance.” He pauses. “I thought you’d call.”

“I’m calling now,” Brandon offers. His head is spinning, maybe, not totally sure what to do with the knowledge that he has Patrick’s attention this way, but he _did_ have a reason for calling. “Um, they actually… they asked me today if I wanted to be captain.”

“No shit!” Patrick sounds… genuinely delighted, actually. “That’s fuckin’ great. You said yes, right?”

“I did,” Brandon says. “They’re gonna announce it tomorrow, I guess. I just… wanted, uh. I mean, you have an A. Any tips for me?”

There’s a long pause, and when Patrick speaks again, he’s quieter, even a little gentle. “Hey, kid, step one is take a minute to celebrate. That’s a good thing you’ve got there. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Oh,” Brandon says. “Thank you.”

“Hey, Brandon,” Patrick says. “Are you awesome?”

“Excuse me?” he asks, startled. “I mean, uh, I’m, you know. Alright.”

“Really? Because it sounds to me like you’re one of the best kids in the OHL right now, and the new captain of your team, and I’m willing to bet you’ll be playing with us again before our season is over. And we, of course, are the best team in the entire NHL, _so_ , tell me, are you awesome?” 

“Yes?” Brandon tries, and when Patrick scoffs at him, tries it again, puts some force behind it. “ _Yes._ Yeah, I’m awesome.”

“Good,” Patrick says, and Brandon thinks he can hear him smiling. “You are. You’re awesome, and capable, and you deserve the C. Okay?”

“Okay,” Brandon says. “Wow. Yeah. Okay. Um, thanks. Thanks, Sharpy. Good luck tonight, okay? Go back to sleep; I really didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, if we lose tonight it’ll be all your fault,” Patrick teases. “Talk to you later, Captain.” He hangs up, and it takes Brandon about ten minutes of smiling goofily at his phone before he realized he forgot to get any actual leadership advice from him.

(Patrick gets a goal and an assist that night. _guess your nap doesn’t matter too much_ , Brandon texts him after the game, and goes to sleep.

He wakes up to a reply, _guess I’m awesome too ;D_ , and suddenly feels much more capable of playing his first OHL game with a C.)

\- 

He gets recalled during the playoffs. His first NHL point is an assist for Leddy, and that night, once they’ve all gotten back to the hotel, Patrick suggests Brandon come to his room before they all call it a night. 

“I did well tonight, though,” Brandon says, a little uncertainly. “I don’t—am I still supposed to kneel if I did well?”

Patrick laughs and tosses an arm over his shoulders as they get into the elevator. “You can if you want,” he grins at him. His teeth are very white and perfectly even. Brandon has never been very good at responding to perfect. “I was thinking more, like, we’d celebrate staying in the game with the minibar.”

“I’m not twenty-one,” Brandon tells him, and Patrick bursts out laughing.

“You can have Coke if it really makes you happy,” he answers, all big eyes and innocent smile, and Brandon can’t help smiling back.

\- 

Brandon does end up kneeling, settles at Patrick’s feet and leans his head on his leg. Patrick is petting his hair with one hand, a little absentmindedly, like he isn’t really thinking about him at all. Brandon glances up at him now and then, watches him take long pulls from a bottle of beer with his other hand.

Patrick glances back down when he’s not expecting it, and smiles at him when they hold eye contact. “You doing good?” he asks. “Enjoy your Coke?”

“I know you put rum in it,” Brandon tells him. When Patrick laughs, his knee shakes a little. 

-

They lose in Chicago. Brandon’s not thrilled, of course, but he’s not quite devastated the way much of the team is. He’s still new, really, just caught the tail end of all of this. He’s disappointed, maybe, but it’s not as though he’d have earned it if they’d gone any farther.

Patrick, though—Patrick’s taking it harder than Brandon is. Maybe harder than he would have expected, even. 

“So that’s your first lost playoffs,” Patrick says with a smile that edges on mean. “How you feeling about it?”

“I’m not looking to repeat it any time soon,” Brandon says. “Want to come over?” 

“Aren’t you still staying in a hotel?” Patrick asks. 

Brandon shrugs. “Yeah.” He’s probably going to stay with his parents for the summer, and he’s still only a hopeful for starting next season. No need for an apartment just yet. 

“Okay,” Patrick decides, “but we’ll go to mine.”

\- 

Brandon’s never been to Patrick’s apartment before. He doesn’t fully realize this until they get there. “Nice place,” he offers, because it is—a view of the river out of giant windows, what looks like a balcony with a hot tub, and a gorgeous, glittery kitchen. 

“Thanks,” Patrick says like he doesn’t really care, and shrugs off his jacket. He leaves it draped on the counter, and Brandon’s fingers itch to hang it up and smooth it out.

Brandon knows, ostensibly, that the reason team management sets new guys up with more experienced player is for the benefit of the rookies. He knows this is for him and not for Patrick, and it’s not like they’re close or anything. They’re not even friends yet.

But Brandon figures if this is going to work, it has to work for both of them.

“So, did you want to kneel?” Patrick asks. He’s still undressing, taking his tie off and unbuttoning his shirt. He toes his shoes off and leaves them by the kitchen island.

“No,” Brandon says, and keeps his eyes on him.

Patrick pauses. “No?”

“Not that easy, no,” Brandon tells him. “If—I—you should make me.” He doesn’t know Patrick well, barely knows him at all, but he can tell he’s keyed up, that maybe he’s lacking some control right now and probably wants it back. He’s as good a person as any to give it.

“I should make you,” Patrick repeats, slowly, like he’s processing. Brandon is holding his breath, and it’s dead quiet for a long moment, until Patrick finally, _finally_ speaks. “Okay.” 

Brandon doesn’t quite know what he’s agreed to. Judging by the look on Patrick’s face, he doesn’t really either.

They leave the kitchen, make it to the couch. They both just stand there a moment, not quite looking at each other, and then Patrick sits, sprawls out. He spreads his arms over the top of the couch and lets his knees fall just a little open. He looks pointedly at the space on the floor beside his foot.

“Nope,” Brandon says, and one of those incredible eyebrows goes up. “Come on, Sharp.”

Patrick looks surprised, then pleased, then something else, something Brandon doesn’t even know that he can name. “Alright, Saad,” he replies, “Kneel.”

Brandon grins at him. “Nope.”

“You’re the one who asked for this,” Patrick reminds him. “Don’t be petulant.”

“Don’t be impatient,” Brandon answers. He shifts a bit, settles with even weight on both feet, feels Patrick’s eyes on him. 

“Should I ask nicely?” he asks, his voice light but just slightly mocking. 

“It’s always worth a shot,” Brandon says cheerfully. 

Patrick rolls his eyes but acquiesces and says, “ _Please_ , Brandon, will you kneel for me?”

Brandon pretends to consider it for a moment, then grins. “Nah.”

In one abrupt and graceful movement, Patrick stands, and all of a sudden Brandon is eye to eye with him. They’re the same size, but Brandon hasn’t been this close to him, at least not quite like this.

Patrick brings a hand up to grip the back of his neck, fingertips pressing in hard, thumb nudged right at the edge of his jaw. “Kneel,” he says, and Brandon really had intended to push a little harder before he did, but—but he kneels.

Patrick sits back down moments after. His grip is still tight on Brandon’s neck, but it loosens steadily, and Brandon can practically feel the tension drain out of him. Patrick goes from holding onto him to leaving his hand as a light pressure and then just to smoothing down his hair again and again.

Brandon smiles.

\- 

When Patrick’s fingers finally stop combing through Brandon’s hair, Brandon glances up to find him looking as though he’s dozed off. He stands slowly, carefully, and goes to collect his shoes and jacket and make his way home.

“Brandon,” Patrick says, startling him into turning around.

“I’m sorry,” he answers automatically. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You’re fine,” Patrick tells him, looking a little rumpled, maybe even softer around the edges. “Don’t go just yet, though.” Brandon hesitates, and then Patrick adds, “Just for a second.”

“Okay,” Brandon says.

“You did that for me, right?” Patrick says. “That wasn’t for you, you didn’t need it.”

“Yeah,” Brandon admits. “I—thought it would help.”

“You didn’t—you didn’t mind, did you? You didn’t do anything you didn’t want to?” Patrick looks concerned, like he thinks he’s done something wrong or pushed Brandon into something he wasn’t comfortable with, and it’s honestly a little endearing.

“I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to,” Brandon tells him, and watches relief wash over his face. “It wasn’t bad. I just—it just looked like you needed it, okay? Did it help?”

The question looks like it catches Patrick off guard, but then he starts to smile. “Yeah, kid. Thanks.” Brandon, pleased with himself, just nods and goes to leave again. “Buy an apartment.”

“What?” he asks, turning around to glance at him again.

“You’re gonna be here in October,” Patrick tells him. “So you need a real apartment.”

Brandon breaks into a smile. Smiles all the way home. 

-

In September, the first person he invites over is Patrick, and he kneels for him in his new living room. There are big windows and not much furniture. Patrick runs his thumb up and down the shell of his ear and asks, “You ready for the season?”

Brandon shivers. He’s got very sensitive ears. “Yeah,” he says. “I think—I think I’m ready.”

“You think,” Patrick repeats, and he sounds amused. “Come on, rookie. You gotta mean it.”

“I mean, how am I supposed to _know_ if I’m ready or not,” Brandon says. “I wanna be ready.”

Patrick hums, considering this, and then says, “Sometimes that’s all you need.”

\- 

Wanting to be ready is not enough to stop a lockout. 

-

Rockford’s a solid hour and forty-five from Chicago. Brandon has to say goodbye to his shiny new apartment for a few months and head a little farther west. Rockford’s nice enough. He lives by himself, technically, but one day Andrew Shaw follows him home and Brandon decides to keep him.

“Sort of like a puppy,” he likes to tell him, and Andrew smiles real big every time. 

\- 

He’s paying attention to news in the NHL, and he’s as antsy for the lockout to end as the rest of the guys who are just waiting to get called up are, but at least he gets to _play_. 

From what he’s heard, Kane’s losing it a little without hockey, and looking for somewhere in Europe that suits him. Toews has thrown himself into representing the players in the negotiations.

Patrick’s in Chicago, but Brandon doesn’t quite know why.

He thinks about talking to him a couple times. He lets his thumb hover over his name in his phone, Patrick Sharp, no contact photo, and never makes the call.

-

When the lockout ends, he doesn’t think to call Patrick. He focuses on hockey, on preparing for training camp with the team, on fighting to earn a spot on the roster for the season. 

Patrick texts him, just a _see you in Chicago_ , but Brandon doesn’t text back. He’s gone this long without contacting him, figures these last days until he sees him again won’t do any damage.

-

He’s not sure what he expected from training camp. 

Or—that’s not quite true. It’d be more accurate to say that training camp isn’t anything he expected, and -being included on the roster isn’t anything he expected, and Patrick Sharp continues to not be anything he expected.

At the end of training camp, the last day of skate, Patrick fills his helmet with Gatorade powder and sticks around to watch it fall on him. He’s been mostly keeping to himself, trying to focus on hockey, on proving himself as the player he _knows_ he is, and Patrick’s mostly been leaving him alone, until—until now, apparently.

Later, on the ice, Toews skates up to tell him, “Sharpy pulls that with all of us, don’t take it personally. Means he likes you. He’s not that original, though, huh? Did that one to me a few times last season.” 

Brandon smiles and opens his mouth to thank him for the information, say he doesn’t mind pranks, but he doesn’t get very far.

“If a girl texts you that she’s pregnant, it’s probably not true,” Toews advises him without context, and then skates back down to the bench.

Brandon is not sure what he is getting into.

-

He’s on his knees in a hotel room in LA, and he’s spent a few days now telling reporters how nice it is to be a part of the team. And it is, and he means it, but he’d almost forgotten that being a part of the team includes—well, this. Patrick.

It’s not bad. It’s just weird. He’s gotten sort of used to being on his own. There’s no kneeling in the AHL. There are too many players in a nebulous state of being experienced in the AHL and rookies in the NHL, or guys who have played in the NHL, maybe even knelt up there, and then gotten sent back down again—it just isn’t a thing. 

“And I mean, from what I’ve heard, I don’t think rookies usually talk to their like, mentors or whatever, if they get reassigned,” Brandon offers. “Andy didn’t talk to Keith like, at _all_.”

“You could have talked to me,” Patrick says, and he sounds disappointed. “I mean—I spent a lockout in the AHL too, when I was in Philly.”

Brandon considers this, curls his hand around Patrick’s ankle. “I forgot,” he admits. “I’m sorry. I just—didn’t really. I don’t know.”

Patrick gets one of his hands in his hair, absentmindedly running his fingers through it again and again. “I mean, it’s okay, you don’t have to need me. I just.” He pauses, and his hand stills too, curled around the back of Brandon’s head. “If you do. When you do. I’m right here.”

\- 

It’s been eight games, two weeks. That’s not that long, in the grand scheme of things, not when he’s averaging like twelve minutes a night and it’s his rookie season.

But he hasn’t scored yet. No points in his first two weeks of his first real season, and it doesn’t matter that he was doing well in Rockford, it’s making him…doubt. Wonder. 

Last season, he only made it two games before they sent him off again, and he’s glad to still be on the roster at this point, but it feels tenuous, and he’s not producing, “and I just don’t know if I deserve to be here, I don’t know if I can be what you guys need me to be—”

“Shh, sh, shh,” Patrick interrupts him, soothing and soft. Brandon’s on his knees, just _talking_ , and he falls silent when Patrick hushes him, just waits. “First thing, kid. ‘You guys.’ We’re not different from you, okay? It’s not us and then you. You’re us. You’re team.”

Brandon takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. Bows his head to rest his forehead against Patrick’s knee and lets that sense of conviction in Patrick’s voice resound in him.

“What are you, Brandon?” Patrick prompts, so gently Brandon doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He’s bent over at the waist, sitting on his couch with his elbows on his knees, head ducked low. He’s so close to Brandon that, even speaking as softly as he is, his voice sounds loud.

“I’m team,” he answers, and Patrick nods, reaches a hand out to smooth down his hair and then settle on the back of his neck. He holds him tighter than he usually does, and Brandon finds he likes the grip.

“Okay,” Patrick says, and he sounds satisfied. “You’re team. So what’s the worst-case scenario here? You get reassigned for a little bit? Is it the end of the world if you go back to Rockford for a while?”

Brandon takes a deep breath, then admits, “No.”

“No,” Patrick agrees. “I’ll miss you, but it won’t be the end of the world. Tell me how many games it’s been since the season started.”

“Eight,” Brandon says dutifully, and Patrick gives the back of his neck a light squeeze.

“And you haven’t scored. So what? You will. You deserve to be here, kid, you really do.” There’s sincerity in Patrick’s voice that scares Brandon a little bit. From what he can tell, Patrick doesn’t lie—he jokes, certainly, and pranks, but he doesn’t _lie_. 

Patrick wouldn’t lie to him. He doesn’t know him well, but he knows that. He clears his throat and says, “Okay.”

He’s still bent over, head still so close to Brandon’s. “Do you believe me?”

Brandon hesitates. He doesn’t like to lie, either. “I believe that you mean it,” he finally says. “I don’t know if it’s true.”

Patrick gives a little sigh and straightens up, leans back on the couch but keeps petting Brandon’s hair. “Well,” he says after a long pause. “It’ll have to do.”

\- 

Brandon scores the next night. Patrick gives him a bear hug in the locker room and brags about the goal to anyone who will listen.

-

“You should shoot more,” Patrick says. Brandon’s not kneeling, technically, he’s actually lying on Patrick’s couch with his head in his lap, but Patrick is carefully combing his fingers through his hair and telling him mentor-y stuff, so Brandon’s totally counting it.

Or he would, if he wasn’t half asleep. It’s a really nice couch.

“Hey,” Patrick says, and tugs real lightly on his hair, just enough to get his eyes open. “I mean it. You’re always trying to get the puck away from you and to Hoss or Tazer instead. You should shoot more.”

“Patrick,” Brandon mumbles, unable to stifle a yawn. “They score more.”

“Because you’re always getting them the puck,” Patrick argues. “You gotta take some of this for you.”

“Hm,” Brandon agrees, batting a hand uselessly in the air. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Patrick says something else, but Brandon’s already fallen asleep.

-

Brandon really likes Patrick’s kitchen. That’s where he spends most of his time in Patrick’s apartment, actually—doesn’t kneel for him nearly as often as he just sits on the counter. Achieves the same purpose, in terms of companionship and mentoring, isn’t as rough on his knees.

Plus, Patrick always makes him tea.

“Everybody thinks I like coffee better,” Brandon tells him. “Cause I’m kind of stupid non-functioning in the morning, right? So everyone assumes coffee is the solution.”

“I do recall you growling at Toes one morning,” Patrick muses. “Like, actually growling. I thought you were going to eat him.”

“I was considering it, but I got a bagel instead,” Brandon deadpans, and tries not to feel too proud when Patrick laughs.

(He really likes making Patrick laugh. That’s not something he’s ready to think too much about.)

-

He gets his first multi-point game in March. They set an NHL record for consecutive points from the start of a season. He’s second star of the night. He doesn’t remember much about his loop around the ice besides that he lifts his stick over the glass to give to a kid; he doesn’t remember much about the locker room except lots of cheering and another bear hug from Patrick.

Dude straight up lifts him off his feet. Brandon definitely remembers _that_.

-

Patrick gets hurt the next day. Three to four weeks, the team says, and Brandon kneels for him in silence.

-

24 games. 24 games without a regulation loss. Brandon gets an assist in the game against the Avalanche where it finally ends, and it isn’t enough. They lose 6-2, and Patrick isn’t there. 

Andy doesn’t come back to their hotel room—Brandon’s guessing he’s with Duncs, kneeling, like he would quite honestly really like to be doing right now—and Brandon takes advantage of his absence to call Patrick.

“How’s your shoulder?” Brandon asks when Patrick picks up.

Patrick makes a noncommittal grumbly sound. “The Percocet helps.”

“It hurts?” he asks, concerned.

“The game did,” Patrick corrects him, and Brandon _knows_ he’s just joking, trying to lighten the mood, he’s sure that Patrick’s as disappointed and frustrated as the rest of them, maybe more so—but he winces anyway.

He doesn’t really know how to answer that, then, and so he just pauses, waits for Patrick to say something else. When he doesn’t, Brandon just sits down on the edge of the hotel bed and says, “Yeah.”

Patrick sighs. “I was hoping I’d make you laugh, kid.”

“Don’t feel much like laughing,” Brandon says. The pattern on the carpet is horrible, a swirling mix of clashing colors that’s giving him a headache. He stretches out on his back on top of the covers to look at the ceiling instead.

Patrick sighs again. He sounds very far away. Brandon supposes he is—long way from Denver to Chicago. “It was a great run. We set records.”

“We did,” Brandon says quietly.

“And you played well tonight,” Patrick adds.

Brandon doesn’t have anything to say to that one.

“And I want you to come over as soon as you get back, okay? Come see me.” He sounds so gentle, but Brandon thinks he’s telling and not asking. “To kneel, if you want, but. Even if you don’t want to kneel. Please just come see me.”

Brandon takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes. “Okay,” he finally says. “I don’t… really want to talk anymore.”

“Do you want me to hang up?” Patrick asks.

Brandon shuts his eyes and presses his palms against them, letting the phone fall flat on the pillow beside his head. “No,” he says. “Not really.”

Patrick makes a small sound, just to acknowledge him, and then asks, “Do you want _me_ to talk?”

“No,” Brandon says again. He loosens his tie, undoes the top few buttons on his shirt. “Just… stay.”

When Patrick speaks, he sounds quiet, gentle. Brandon very decidedly doesn’t want to think about the way he’s almost definitely smiling, all soft around the edges. “I can do that.”

Brandon falls asleep without hanging up, taking his clothes off, or getting under the covers. He wakes up with his phone pressed between his neck and his collar, burrowed in the scratchy duvet. 

In the morning, he’s got red marks on his cheek in the pattern of the intricate embroidery on one of the throw pillows. Andy laughs at the paisley, and Brandon doesn’t mind as much as he would have the night before.

-

Brandon stops by Starbucks after the plane lands in Chicago. He gets tea for himself, and, on something almost like a whim, a venti mocha with a shot of hazelnut syrup, skim milk, no whipped cream, please. 

Brandon’s not sure when he learned Patrick’s guilty pleasure order.

He’s still got his duffel with him, slung over his shoulder. It doesn’t feel nearly as heavy now, on his way to Patrick’s apartment, as it did when he was leaving the hotel in Denver.

The doorman lets him in, but he waits outside his door for so long he starts to think Patrick isn’t home, and maybe he should have called first, but Patrick _said_ to come right away, said as soon as he could, and Brandon… well, he came as soon as he could.

When the door does open, Patrick looks surprised. Brandon definitely should have called.

“I—brought you coffee,” Brandon says, because he did.

Patrick’s staring at him like he’s expecting someone else. “You—okay. Um. Hey. Hi.”

“Can I come in?” Brandon asks.

“I—I mean, sure, yeah, but.” Patrick clears his throat. “What are you doing here? It’s not bad. I like to see you. Just—wondering. Did the plane just get in?”

Brandon nods, shifting uncomfortably. “Um, you said,” he says a little uselessly. “You asked for me to come see you. Um, so, here I am.”

“With my coffee,” Patrick says.

“With your coffee,” Brandon agrees helplessly. “It’s, um, a hazelnut mocha. No whip.”

“No whip,” he repeats, and takes it from him. “Why no whip?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “You always get no whip.”

Patrick smiles at that and then takes a step back. “Come in, sorry, come in. I just—I’m glad you’re here. I just didn’t expect you.”

Brandon steps inside. He’s not sure what to do with his other hand now that Patrick’s taken his coffee from him, so he just sort of shoves it in his pocket. He’s never felt this unsure before, not even that very first time with him, and he’s not quite sure what’s making it so off.

“Was the flight okay?” Patrick asks. “I know you don’t like planes.”

“You know, I actually fell asleep on Seabs,” he admits. “He’s got good shoulders for that.”

Patrick laughs and leads him into the living room, sits down and puts his feet up. “You know, I can really see that being true,” he says with a grin. “Never put much thought into it before.”

Brandon drops his duffel and sits down in the armchair opposite him, feeling a little bit more at ease now that he’s not just waiting in the doorway. This is far more familiar—settling into Patrick’s excessively cozy chairs with excessively decorated pillows, watching Patrick put his feet up on the coffee table and smile.

“Do you want to kneel?” Patrick asks. “Or just hang out?”

“Um, I want to finish my tea before anything else, I think,” he says. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Patrick says, and, like always, like _always_ , his brilliant smile makes Brandon go a little wobbly inside. “Anything you want.” He pauses for a long moment, and his smile fades. “Do you want to talk about the game? I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Brandon shrugs. “It was an incredible run, you know?” he says. “Had to end sometime.”

“6-2, though,” Patrick says, and Brandon winces.

“I tried,” he says, and looks down at the floor. He did.

“Shit,” Patrick says. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Brandon just shrugs. Patrick’s carpet needs to be vacuumed. 

“Brandon.” Patrick sounds insistent, even urgent, in a way Brandon has never really heard him before. “It happens. We lose sometimes. And this—we still set records. We’re still first in the league.”

“Yeah, but last night—” Brandon starts, and he’s embarrassed by how his voice cracks.

“Last night, you played really well, and we just couldn’t get it any farther,” Patrick tells him. He’s shifted to the edge of the couch, leaned over to get closer into Brandon’s space. “It’s not on you.”

Brandon glances up at him. He’s leaned over too, elbows on his knees, and he’s suddenly very aware of the way he’s mirroring Patrick. He starts to move, straighten up, but Patrick reaches out for him, cups his hand around the side of his neck. The pad of his thumb brushes across his jaw, and Brandon takes an unsteady breath.

“It’s not on you,” Patrick presses. “You don’t—I don’t mean to make you feel bad about this.”

Later, Brandon will scrounge for something to blame this decision on.

Now, he leans in and kisses him.

Patrick’s grip tightens for a brief second and then his hand drops; he pulls back and his lips part and he drops his gaze away from Brandon’s face, and for a brief, horrifying moment Brandon thinks he’s ruined everything and will have to leave the state and possibly country, but then Patrick’s got both hands in his hair and has surged back to meet him, kissing him fervently and pressing himself into his space and—

Brandon reaches up to hold onto Patrick’s collar and kiss him back, pulling him half on top of him in the armchair sort of by accident. He tries to break away to apologize, but Patrick just finds his mouth again, either uneager or entirely unwilling to let him go just yet.

Brandon doesn’t have any complaints. It feels like something bursting that’s been building for a long time, and Patrick’s lips are soft and warm. Even as hungry as Patrick is, as _intense_ as Patrick is, he’s so gentle, and Brandon is kissing him with everything he’s got. Patrick’s got a tight grip on his hair, and Brandon doesn’t want him to let go.

Patrick ends up settled mostly on top of his lap, and Brandon’s trying to get him as close as possible while being mindful of his injury, and also, most importantly, he’d kind of like to never stop _kissing him_ , and then, holy shit, Patrick licks into his mouth and he very suddenly realizes that he is kissing Patrick Sharp.

He pulls back somewhat abruptly and stares up at him with wide eyes. He feels like his mouth might be a little bruised.

Patrick, who is now just straddling him, takes a shallow breath and draws a fingertip along the shell of his ear. “Are you okay?” he asks. His voice is low and concerned.

“I didn’t—I’m—yes,” Brandon says, and brings one hand up to press his thumb against Patrick’s lower lip, bitten red and swollen. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Patrick says, and kisses the pad of his thumb. “Or, yes, a little bit, but. I liked it.”

“Oh,” Brandon says, and presses a little harder.

Patrick looks a little shaky, but he grins. “You’re gonna kill me, kid.”

“I don’t want to do _that,_ ” Brandon says, and Patrick laughs at him a little bit, leans down to kiss him again.

He breaks away after a minute, though, and doesn’t let Brandon chase his lips. “What do you want to do, then?” he asks, voice going a little low.

Brandon’s gaze first drops to Patrick’s mouth and then, without him really meaning it to, flicks towards the hallway, towards Patrick’s _bedroom_. He looks back at his green, _green_ eyes quickly, but the damage is done, and Patrick’s grin is looking a little predatory. 

“Oh,” Patrick says, and he sounds like Brandon feels—eager and nervous and hungry all at once. “You sure, Saader?”

“Is it—if we—” Brandon _wants_ , wants with everything he’s got, and he knows its not usual for rookies and their mentors to go beyond just kneeling, and he knows he wants to make Patrick feel good, but he also knows that it might _only_ be that, and he’s not sure he wants to tie this up in complicated dynamics of teammate and mentor and—and whatever else Patrick is. He takes a breath and shuts his eyes.

Patrick leans in, presses easy, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and neck. “If we what, babe?” he asks, curling one hand into his hair and pulling a little, just enough to get Brandon’s head tilted back a little.

“If we do this,” Brandon says, and grips Patrick where his neck meets his shoulder, keeps him close. “What’s gonna change?”

He stills, makes a considering noise. “Well,” he finally says. “What do you want to?”

Brandon doesn’t know how to answer that, and so he doesn’t, just runs his thumb along the divot of his collarbone. Patrick presses another kiss to his neck and then straightens up; he’s still straddling his lap, sharing his space, but now he’s just _looking_ at him, so immediate and intense that Brandon has to glance down again. 

“What do you want this to be, Brandon?” he asks, and he sounds serious. He pushes Brandon’s hair away from his face, runs his fingers through it and then trails them down against his jaw. “I can be—I can be anything you want.”

Brandon feels his heart leap in his chest, and he looks up at him. “Anything?” he asks.

Patrick breaks into a smile and kisses him again. 

Brandon presses back to kiss him immediately, wrapping his arms around his neck and half-falling backwards in the chair, pulling Patrick with him.

“Hey,” Patrick says between kisses. “How about we get off this armchair? I do have a perfectly good bedroom, you know. And even some spacious couches.” He sounds so adorably put out that Brandon dissolves into laughter, and Patrick follows moments after.

“Spacious couches?” Brandon teases, and Patrick lightly smacks his head and then stands up. He offers a hand and Brandon takes it, lets the thrill of it run up his spine.

“Bedroom,” Patrick decides, and Brandon isn’t about to say no.

They kiss their way through the hallway, and manage not to break any lamps. Patrick shoves Brandon back up against the wall a little bit, and he thinks he does bump a frame off balance. His shirt gets left on a side table, but they manage to get to Patrick’s bedroom with minor injuries and no ripped clothing, and that’s a win.

Patrick is _tragically_ still dressed, and Brandon lets go of him in order to start unbuttoning his shirt. He steps back, watches Patrick’s long, thin fingers undo the buttons, and then he just—gets distracted.

“You still with me, babe?” Patrick asks teasingly, and Brandon nods.

“You’re, uh,” he says. “You’re really beautiful.”

Patrick starts grinning and closes the distance between them, pulls him into a soft kiss. “I know,” he says, and Brandon starts laughing and shoves him back a little bit.

“You’re terrible,” he tells him, still laughing as he unbuttons his jeans and kicks them off. 

Patrick shrugs at him and grins broadly, all open and sleazy in this way that is _really_ working for Brandon. “You want me,” he says, and rolls his hips in a slow circle as he pops the button on his slacks, and Brandon’s mouth goes a little dry.

“Yeah,” he says when he’s figured out how to talk again. “Yeah, Patrick, I really do.”

Patrick’s smile gets soft for just a moment and then dirty again, so fast Brandon almost wonders if he’s made it up himself. “Take me,” he says, and it sounds like a dare.

Brandon takes a deep breath and works his briefs off down his hips, and the way Patrick’s eyes go wide as he steps out of them is validating and exciting and _terrifying_ all at once. His gaze on him is a heavy weight, and Brandon tries not to feel too self-conscious standing bare ass naked in Patrick Sharp’s bedroom.

“God, I want you to fuck me,” Patrick says, and _finally_ gets his pants off.

Brandon makes a helplessly little noise and closes the distance between them, pulls him into a desperate kiss. He walks them back towards his bed, and the slide of their dicks together is torturous and incredible, and he very, very carefully sets Patrick down and climbs over him.

He takes a second, kneeling above his hips, to just look, to draw his fingers down from his shoulders to his abs to his dick, his pink, cut, _pretty_ dick.

“I should have known your cock would be so fucking gorgeous,” Brandon says, and gently closes his hand around it. “Like the rest of you, yeah?”

Patrick’s hips jerk up like hadn’t really meant them to, and he shuts his eyes. “Brandon,” he says, and reaches out to wrap his hand around his arm.

“Look at me,” Brandon chides softly, and Patrick does.

Brandon smiles and holds eye contact as he scoots back down on the bed, leans over to press kisses down his chest. He draws a circle around Patrick’s belly button with his tongue and relishes how it makes him laugh, presses a kiss into the cut of his hip and revels in how it makes him shiver.

Brandon kind of wants to ruin him.

He swirls his tongue around the head of his dick, and holds Patrick’s hips down on the bed. He keeps his palms pressed flat against his skin, lets his thumbs settle in the dip of his hipbone. 

Patrick makes this strangled little noise and, quite honestly, Brandon wants to hear him make it again, and so he ducks his head, takes his dick in his mouth. He’s slow and teasing, just trying to get Patrick worked up. He’s thought a lot about this, imagined how pretty he must be all flushed and wanting, and he’s dying to get him there.

Brandon has considered what Patrick would look like. It never really occurred to him to imagine what he would sound like, until it’s _happening_ , and Patrick is fucking _loud._

He’s not really talking so much as moaning, gasping. Every now and then he says something that sounds like “Brandon” or “more” or “please,” and Brandon renews his efforts and takes him deeper every time. He rewards good behavior, after all, and Patrick is being so good.

He finally pulls off and straightens up; leaves Patrick’s dick alone for a moment. “Where do you keep condoms?” he asked, and Patrick honest to god whimpers. “You still want me to fuck you, right?”

“Yes,” Patrick says a little desperately. “God, yes. Please. Uh, left nightstand. Top drawer, in the back.” 

Brandon smiles sweetly and moves up over him, gives him a soft kiss. “Thanks, lovely,” he says, and then reaches over to open the drawer. “Lube in here too?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and, when Brandon looks back at him, he’s gripping the sheets tight. He gets a condom and the bottle and settles back between his legs, leaning over to kiss each of his nipples. Patrick gasps and arches his back up, and Brandon gives him a soft kiss on the mouth.

“Be good,” he says, and Patrick reaches for him and pulls him into a long, biting kiss.

“I’m good, I’m _good_ ,” he insists, and Brandon smiles and straightens up, scoots back down.

“Spread your legs a little more,” he says, and Patrick does, immediately. Brandon grins and runs his hands up and down his thighs. He leans over to kiss his belly, real light, and then the head of his dick, and then the inside of his thighs. Patrick’s already squirmy and loud, and Brandon can’t wait to push him farther.

He slicks his fingers up and then sets the bottle aside, ducking down to lick lightly at him before pressing a finger in, slow, careful. 

Patrick lets out this incredible groan and tries to grind his hips down on him immediately. Brandon’s just begun, and Patrick’s already half gone. It’s—well, kind of flattering, honestly, but mostly just unspeakably hot.

It occurs to Brandon that this means Patrick’s thought about this too, as much as Brandon has, and, even as he adds another finger and scissors them, it makes him smile softly.

“Did you think about this?” Brandon asks him, looking up at him as he fucks him on two fingers. “About me?”

“Jesus Christ, Brandon, yes,” Patrick says, and it sounds like the words are an effort. “Of course I did.”

“Fingering you?” he asks, and wraps his other hand around his dick, jerks him slowly. “Touching you? Tell me.”

Patrick moans and then says, “Rimming me. Eating me out, I want—”

Brandon doesn’t even let him finish before he’s ducked his head again, licking around his fingers, pressing his tongue in alongside them. Patrick loses all ability to form real words, apparently, because he’s not even managing his name or “yes” anymore, it’s just sounds, and Brandon fucking loves it.

He’d ask if Patrick can take another, but his mouth is kind of busy, so he just presses a third up against him. 

Patrick whimpers and then opens up so easy, and arches his back up off the bed. He’s got one hand in Brandon’s hair and the other fisted in the sheets, and he’s pushing back against him, trying to fuck himself on Brandon’s tongue.

Brandon loses himself in it, stretching Patrick, feel him writhe around him. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Patrick is practically chanting, and Brandon intends to give him what he wants. He licks a stripe up his cock first, sucks the head into his mouth.

He builds a rhythm up, matches his mouth to his fingers, and just listens to Patrick whimper and beg. He _knew_ he could get him like this, knew he could take him apart this way, and he’s hard and wanting and _proud_. “I will, baby, be patient,” he pulls off to say, and twists his fingers inside him.

Patrick makes a noise like it’s been wrenched from his throat and then he’s coming, on Brandon’s chin and neck and mostly on himself. Brandon watches, transfixed, and slows but doesn’t stop fucking him on his hand.

“You came,” he notes, and wipes his chin clean with his other hand.

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick says, and Brandon slowly pulls his fingers out, ducks his head to lick up the come settling on Patrick’s abs. “I—I wanted you to fuck me. You still can, if you want, or I can suck you off—”

“I’m going to come on you, if that’s okay,” Brandon interrupts.

“ _Please_ ,” Patrick says. “Can I touch you?”

“Yeah,” Brandon says, and Patrick does, sits up just enough to wrap his hand around his cock. He lets Patrick do the work, keeps his hands to himself and just watches him jerk him off. He presses his thumb into the slit and that’s it; he’s coming too, long stripes coating Patrick’s perfect, tan chest.

Patrick’s lying on his back, looking perfectly sated, and Brandon takes a deep breath and leans down to kiss him, dropping his hips to roll against his. They’re both softening and sensitive, but Brandon grinds down against Patrick’s cock anyway just to hear him gasp.

He finally eases up, gives him a soft kiss and climbs off him. “Where do you keep washcloths?” he asks.

“I don’t care, don’t _go_ ,” Patrick says, sounding sleepy. “Stay.”

Brandon laughs and kisses his forehead. “I’ll be right back, promise.”

Patrick mumbles something, apparently appeased, and Brandon pads into the bathroom. He washes his face, then hands, and then finds a towel to clean Patrick up with.

He’s somehow already nearly asleep when Brandon gets back, and he feels a tremendous wave of affection hit his chest. He wipes his chest and thighs clean as carefully as he can, and Patrick stirs, but doesn’t say anything. 

Brandon decides it’s far easier to toss the washcloth into the hamper than it is to get up again, and so he does. He curls up around Patrick, kisses his cheek.

He’ll be there when he wakes up. It’s a nice thought.

\- 

The sun has gone down by the time Brandon blinks awake. Patrick is stretched out beside him with his head on his chest and his cold toes pressed Brandon’s legs. Brandon yawns and then says, “You said you could be anything I want.”

Patrick smiles real gentle and drums his fingers on Brandon’s chest. “Tell me what you want me to be, sweetheart,” he says, and presses a kiss to his shoulder.

Brandon takes his hand in his own and holds it there, over his heart. “Mine,” he tells him simply, and turns his head to look down at him.

Patrick tilts his head up and gives him a slow, sweet kiss, letting go of his hand so he can touch Brandon’s cheek. When he breaks away, he brushes his fingers down his jaw and neck and then back to his chest, to Brandon’s hand. 

“That’s anything,” he says, and laces their fingers together again.

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://brandonsaaders.tumblr.com) for more hockey shenanigans!


End file.
